


and we watched the seas like sapphires turn to sand

by crownlessliestheking



Series: Let the Waves Bear Us Forth [1]
Category: The Hobbit (All Media Types), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hiatus, M/M, Mermaid! Thranduil, PTSD, Pirate!Bard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:29:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard is an honorable pirate-this is something he always reminds himself to be, because the things he does are only for the good of his children. Of course, when he ventures into mermaid waters with only the promise of a bounty enough to let him retire for good, he realizes that there are things he can and cannot do. Like fall in love with the very merman who he came to capture.</p><p>[On Hiatus, probably indefinite]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bard sighed, his eyes unusually soft as he gazed out into the open sea; it had been a quiet day, the ship sailing through idyllic waters with nary a cloud on the sky that was now lit with the funeral pyres of the stars as the sun sunk below the horizon, drenching the undulating waves in flame. He could admit that it was beautiful, even though the sight of fire still made him hesitate, made his heart skip a beat, made his mind falter and flick back to two years ago. No, he did not like the sight of fire anymore, for its warmth and light were now distorted into blistering heat and blinding rage and a roared promise of doom and an ache on old scars over his chest. though most days he could remind himself that it was not so. 

For now, everything was so…peaceful. It was quiet, time slipping past on currents he did not care to ride; he was content to let it flow away from him for now, though he'd have to catch up later. He did not mind-truly, it was simply unusual for the pirate to go longer than a day without some encounter or mishap. Captain was a role Bard had never thought he would play, and the worries that plagued him before-providing for his children, ensuring that his hungry friends did not starve, they were all multiplied, for he had to protect his crew, guide them, make the right choices in a place where the wrong ones meant almost certain death. 

He leaned his head against the mast, letting his eyes drift lazily over the magnificent view from the crow’s nest; shimmering waves spread out around him in all directions, sapphire and jade and turquoise strewn carelessly by a great hand, melted by the ceaseless beat of the sun, glinting and dancing where it caught the light. Bard had always gravitated towards it, even as a ship’s lowly apprentice; it bore the scars of his presence for years, initials carved into the sturdy wood, stains from blood and whiskey alike, a groove worn smooth in his favored position. Of course, now that he was captain of the _Esgaroth_ , renamed for the town where his home and heart lay, it was rare that he had the chance to simply relax and feel the wind on his face, with nothing but the melody of waves against the hull and the low flapping of the sails in his ears. There was no such thing as time to himself, so when it did come along, he treasured it above nearly all el

It was only during times like this that he allowed himself to think of those he had left behind-his three children, Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda. It pained him to think that they had not only grown up without a mother, but now, they had lost their father. He knew that Sigrid and Bain were perfectly capable of taking care of their sister, and of each other. He knew that he sent them enough money, and that they knew he loved them dearly (the stack of letters occupying a drawer of his old, battered desk in his cabin proved that), yet nothing could assuage the fierce ache of missing them, not even the sea which had always called him with its siren song. Warmth blossomed in his chest, a small smile finding its way onto his lips; Bard cannot wait to see his children again, it's the thought of them that makes him careful where others would be reckless, honest where others would lie and cheat, caring where others would be ruthless.

Most become pirates for themselves, but Bard had done it for someone else. Three someone else-s, to be precise.

“Cap’n!” the shout came up, once, then twice more as it was carried up the rigging by the various crew members perched there, like birds without wings. 

“Yes?” He stood, easily swaying with his ship’s gentle motion, peering over the edge of the crow’s nest and onto the deck below.

“Well, sir, is jus’ tha’ we’re headin’ into,” the boatswain, a capable fellow by the name of Rus, wrung his hands nervously and lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper that Bard could only barely hear, “mermaid waters.”

Immediately, his crew began to mutter, crossing themselves and casting nervous glances at the still ocean, in which ruby was rapidly giving way to obsidian as night fell. His men were reliable, trustworthy, loyal-as much so as could be expected of a pirate, at least, though they certainly were a superstitious bunch. Bard put little stock in legends and fables, excepting when they came to life in front of him, but even he felt a twinge of unease jolt through him at the mention of mermaids. He knew that he had faced worse-

(blazing infernos rushing to consume him, a laugh rumbling like sinister thunder, a voice matched to glowing molten eyes that were once human)-

knew that none had seen the Mer in hundreds of years. But he also knew that they were capricious creatures, full of malice, unlike their selkie kin in the far north. 

"Good," he swallows the urge to turn the ship around that rises in his throat, tasting of bilious fear, as he expertly climbs down the rigging to reach his crew, navigating the network of ropes on instinct and memory.

"You know what we're here for, after all. The crew of the _Erebor_  and Thorin Oakenshield will pay a great deal, enough gold and jewels that we need not set sail in these accursed waters ever again!" He calls out the the crew, giving them an easy, reassuring smile. The reward will take their minds off of the danger, at least temporarily. 

A hearty cheer resounded on the deck as soon as the declaration left his mouth, and Bard's usually grim face broke into a small smile at that. Privately, he agreed entirely with the sentiment. Night was setting in, and the water was starting to glow with an ominous sort of milky phosphorescence which he did not like one bit. It was eerie, unnatural, and entirely too much proof that what he was attempting would be considered nigh impossible, even if the Mer still resided in these waters. Thorin Oakenshield was respected, to be sure, but he also hailed from the Line of Durin, the famous Dwarven pirate lord whose descendants were plagued with the curse of madness, be it lust for gold, liquor, or the sea, Durin's Sons' lives always ended in tragedy. And there had been rumors as to Oakenshield's mind falling to the first, just as his father's and grandfather's had. Though, he hadn't looked the part when Bard had met him within his mountain, in an immense cavern illuminated by torches of blue light and the pure, white light of the gem known as the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain. The great veins of gold lattice that streaked through the dome of the ceiling, running like waterfalls down into the darkness-they had been scraped off, replaced by Dwarvish runes inlaid in silver that told the tale of Oakenshield's quest. And that was when Bard knew for sure that he would be paid. 

Bard let a dry chuckle escape his lips, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. It did not matter Oakenshield's madness, for he had already received a considerable amount of gold for simply agreeing to the madness of this venture, and there was much more to come. Even if he never found the Mer the other sought, he would get ample pay because, as the intimidating first mate, now made Captain of the King's Guard, had growled out over a tankard of ale, "No news is good news."

Bard would never quite be able to rid himself of the image of the scowling Dwarrow entering his house through the plumbing, though. 

"Come on, men," he called out, striding over the the ship's helm and snapping his looking glass, battered but still dear to him, open. "Keep a sharp eye out, and if you see something, inform another! We spend three days and three nights in these waters, as required, but I will not have us lie and linger in other...other seas. We are honorable men."

 _Honorable men, indeed,_ he sighed into the still air, and a breeze danced across his face as if to mock him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is here, and we do get to hear from Thranduil this time! It's also a lot longer than Chapter 1, which was a hobbit of a chapter, really. Haven't written fic in a while, and I gotta say, it's pretty damn great to be getting back into the rhythm of things! To those who left kudos, thank you so so so much <3 I'm ecstatic that you like it!
> 
> (I'm working on Chapter 3 already, I have a pretty good idea of how it's gonna go down)
> 
> ~K

It was Tauriel who first brought him word of the human ship, though he had sensed its entry into his waters before any word had come of it. A rickety old thing, he'd noted; it would be almost too easy to sink were he so inclined.  Thranduil supposed he appreciated her bravery as he listened to her report, her voice calm but for the slightest of tremors. He reclined on his throne, pearl and opal and bits of diamond set into a flowing coral structure at the heart of the reef; it glimmered and glowed and thrummed with life and power, miniature whirlpools dancing near its foot, light playing on it like the sunlight-dappled surface was at his head rather than 25 feet above. 

Her hair floated around her head, a brilliant red with a single pearl of the same hue braided into a strand near her face that denoted her position as Captain of the Guard-a gift from his son, he recalled with a twinge of distaste, and a position that had been jeopardized as of late. He had not made mention of it, though, for she continued to serve him well, her commands keeping the guard in line, she was as efficient as ever. 

“I have three guards watching the ship at all times, my liege. The humans have cast a mithril net into the ocean, it floats near their ship and looks just like starlight dappling the water on the nights we venture to the surface. I have warned them to stay away from it at all costs, though I did not send out an alert to those outside of the ship’s immediate vicinity, as I was unsure if you wished the entire kingdom to know of the humans’ presence,” she finished, inclining her head in a low bow. He nodded, mulling it over. It had been prudent of her to do so, especially since the latest Upwelling. It would not do to have his people panic over these intruders, not when there were far more dangerous ones to deal with.

The mithril net was another matter entirely. The Mer did not love gems and gold with the greedy, fierce passion of dwarrows; they preferred silver, and jade and sapphire and turquoise and opal and pearl, blues and greens and whites that held the color of the sea in which they lived. And mithril, mithril they loved above all-loved it for its strength, its brightness, the way it captured the light and amplified it-exactly like starlight seen through the water. It would be enough to lure any Mer close. 

He sighed, the water leaving his lips to swirl into a small current, twining itself through the room, Tauriel's hair following it like a fiery shadow. His son opened his mouth as if to speak, but Thranduil gestured elegantly, the rings encasing his fingers flashing as Legolas held his tongue. His admiration of the Captain had not dimmed, and now it veered dangerously close to enamorment; he would have to talk to the Prince about status and the importance of distance, though that would come later. 

“Thank you for your report on this, Captain. I ensure that you will stay on top of this, unlike your actions with the last non-Mer to cross our borders,” he spoke softly, narrowing his eyes at the Captain, who flushed down to her gills.

“Yes, my lord. About the recent Upwelling, my lord?” she asked, hesitant, awaiting his permission to continue, which he granted with a slight tilt of his head. “Lord Elrond of Imladris, he has sent word of the creatures we chased off lingering near his borders.” Her voice was quiet, the tremor growing more pronounced, her eyes staring resolutely down at the turquoise-sapphire mosaic of the floor.

Thranduil bared his teeth, rising from his throne in a single, fluid movement, the water growing cold and dark around him.

“Tauriel. That half-breed’s land is not our concern. We protect our own, cleanse our borders. Elrond,” he practically spat the name, cringing at the foul taste it left on his tongue, “is not within our borders, now is he? He is upriver, disgustingly close to the land.”

The Captain visibly flinched, her pearly skin flushing dark, the mottled grey-brown scales of her tail catching the light as she shifted, agitated. She had come from further inland, if he recalled correctly, a saltwater lagoon only barely connected to the sea's life. She was right to fear his wrath, Thranduil smirked to himself, though he was careful not to let the emotion show in any way other than a quick glimmer of light across his eyes. He did not settle back down onto his throne; rather, he drew himself up to his full height, the opal-and-mithril necklaces draped around his neck swaying before settling back against his skin.

“Dol Guldur,” she began once more, having gathered her courage for a few, final words. 

“What of it?” he snapped, narrowing his eyes, a stronger current flowing through the room, his crown of coral and silver and blue pearl sharpening, growing long, jagged edges and casting a deathly shadow across his brow. Names had power, and the name of that place was enough to cast a shadow upon even the brightest of days. 

“It is the source of the frequent Upwellings, my lord,” she continued, though Tauriel made no move to suggest anything else. But he knew the desire that burned beneath her words, he could feel it rolling off of her, see it in the tense set of her shoulders and jaw. She was young yet, and impulsive; she knew nothing of the world and its cruelty. Justice is what she tried to uphold, though she could not truly know the consequences of the attempt. 

“We protect our own, those within our borders,” Thranduil repeated, his voice going dangerously soft. “Dol Guldur is not our problem; it is a fell fortress, true, but long since abandoned and incapable of spawning such dark things.”

He had been there once, along with his father Oropher. Thranduil shuddered to recall the gaping slit in the ocean floor, the dread fortress rising from jagged black volcanic rock around it, and inside, a straight vertical drop, dizzying, into the oil-slick blackness of the abyss, and shipwrecks adorning the rocks like deadened baubles. His father’s face, normally full of a carefree smile, had frozen stony, and he hastened out of it. He knew of Oropher’s attempts to destroy it, and knew of their failures; Thranduil would not waste precious resources on what had obviously proved a futile venture.

“Yes, my lord,” Tauriel murmured, bowing low in apology.

“And about the humans,” he added, the current bearing him forward in a single, fluid motion as he unsheathed his sword, watching the tempered steel catch the light that filtered through the water’s surface.

“Yes, my lord?”

“I will deal with them. Personally.”

!~!~!~!~!

The first and second days passed without as much as a flicker of movement in the eerily still sea (it was not _normal_ , Bard maintained, for any body of water to be so hellishly still. It was unnatural, unnerving, as if the water around them were dying and the winds but phantoms unable to touch the tangible to world), and the third had gone much the same. It was not an unpleasant place, to be sure, but neither was it comforting: the air was wet and cloying, thick with brine and fog and the echo of a song so faint it was impossible to tell if it were imagined or real; the ocean was utterly unmoving, its surface a greenish glass in the day, though at night it glowed and the entire area seemed to exhale; there were no fish, and his men had not had anything but cram and dried meat and fruit for every meal-actually, Bard realized, there was nothing alive in those waters (nothing he could see, at least, and he would prefer if it stayed that way). The _Esgaroth_ simply drifted through the waters, leaving barely a wave in its wake though it was a large, ungainly ship, beautiful in its own right but certainly not possessing the elegance it took to glide across the waters like it did here. His ship moved slowly, so slow it was difficult to tell it was moving at all, given the complete sameness of their environment, but move it did, borne by a ghost of a current; it seemed as if it were barely tethered to this world at all.

He shook his head as the world around him lit up once more, the light of the dying sun tinting the blue-green glow of the waves a crimson so reminiscent of blood crusted onto a linen shirt that Bard had to close his eyes. _One night more_ , he reminded himself, his hands forming loosely clenched fists. _One night more and you are done with this infernal place, done with this request. You will get your gold, and you will go home to your children._

Bard looked at the net-mithril, according to Oakenshield, _bloody mithril_ to catch a fairy tale, did the dwarf captain not know how _much_ that had to be worth?-and idly wondered how much it was worth. It hovered in the water like an ethereal thread forged from moonlight, imbued with the core of a star; the net looked so very at home in this still place, magical on its own. It, at least, had shown that Oakenshield’s intentions were true-and that he either trusted Bard greatly or was a greater fool than Bard had originally thought.

“Mithril,” he whispered to himself, almost reverently, shaking his head. A lesser man would have taken it and the initial payment-it certainly would fetch a hefty price. Bard had considered it, briefly, but then he read the rest of the contact-and oh, what a contract it was…the gold promised upon his return was worth more than thrice the net, and worth the risk ten times over. Especially since there appeared to be no risk at all, other than dying of boredom. He would not be sad to leave this place, exactly, though it was certainly… _unnatural_ , his mind supplied sluggishly. It was unnatural, yes, but it was peaceful, an odd sort of comfort, a double edged blade, almost. It was set apart from the world and its worries, a place where men ventured not and thereby it remained untouched, preserved. Bard almost wished that he had a place like this-in the aspect of isolation, not mermaids and haunting legends and chilling stories-for himself and his children.

The water, tranquil with its soft glow now that the sun had all but vanished, was oddly comforting. It seemed to transform before his very eyes, and he vaguely recalled a glowing tide washing onto black sand in a cove that his mother had showed him as a child, a cove he had come back to several times, only showing one other person. It had been the first place that was truly his, the first time he could safely say he’d fallen in love with the sea-and then with a woman that seemed to be the sea personified.

Laurel. Though she’d preferred Undine, insisting that it was “more pirate-y, dearest, trust me on these matters” with a wink and a grin that was like sunlight dancing across water. He loved her dearly still, though it no longer manifested itself in an acute, piercing pain; no, this particular knife had dulled over time as he thought of her less often, thought of his children more-a new love, not to replace the old, but to reforge it. Bain, Sigrid, Tilda. They were all he had left of her, and he clung to them like a drowning man clung to his last breath, doing his best to keep them safe and happy, even if it meant he was not always there. Laurel would have understood, he told himself whenever his thoughts wandered down this particular road, following a well-trodden trail littered with the sharp stones of loss.

But a part of him always said that she would not.

He often ignored that part of him, that insidious whisper that told him he was a terrible father-but on some days when the weight of the world sat too heavily on his shoulders, not nearly broad enough to accommodate it, he knew it to be true. But it was better he carry that weight than his children. He had been there for them when it mattered most, had tried his best even though deep down he knew he was not cut out to be a father, just like Laurel had never been cut out to remain on land-she would waste and wither were her connection to the ocean to be cut, and he understood this, he really did, though he’d been prepared to sacrifice that intrinsic part of him to care for his children as she sailed the world, always coming back to them. To him. Until one day, she had not.

Bard knew what some people in Esgaroth said of him when they thought he wasn’t listening, and sometimes when they thought he might be (though never when his children were by his side-and he thanked whatever gods there were that they’d granted that courtesy): he was too grim, too stingy with his smiles, too focused on his responsibilities, and not nearly playful enough, not nearly relaxed enough, not nearly present enough. But he loved them, and they knew he loved them, and that would have to be enough for now.

The water looked warm, Bard mused, leaning over the rail to peer down into the depths, a distraction from his thoughts. Warm, and rather shallow. His children adored swimming, all but Tilda, who would only venture as far as knee-deep water and no farther. Very different from the ice that clogged the real Esgaroth’s deep harbors, steely gray as this was a gentle turquoise, cold and bracing and grounded, as often as it did not.

A soft, ululating call seemed to rise in his ears-his men stopped in their tracks as if they’d been shot by an Orcish poison arrow, he noted hazily-as he leaned further down, his hair falling out of the messy bun he kept it in. The song, it was the same one that eluded him during the day, the very same one that seemed to hover in the very air, just beneath the plane of reality. The harmony grew louder, holding the faintest discord, though that only served to add a sort of gritty depth to sound; the words began to filter into his ears, lilting and ancient, thrumming with a fey power. He strained his ears to catch individual phrases, though they fell to the air like waves crashing to shore, rushing in and retreating-if the seas could speak, this is what they would sound like.

“Cap’n!” He turned briefly to growl at the interruption-it did not suit the melody, not one bit, human voices didn’t belong to this, they would only taint the beautiful purity of the sound.

Just as he looked away, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something impossible, something that looked like mithril and sunset and the sea rising to meet him-

(or was he falling?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They talk. Nuff said.

The cry of his name echoed in his ears, drowning out the song as he tumbled downwards, hands scrabbling against the worn-smooth wood of the  _Esgaroth_ in desperation-and, just as he hit the water, frantically reaching for the knife he kept in his boot, long and sharp, though he’d no idea what sort of good it would do on the Mer.

He hit the water like a stone, the impact almost knocking what little air he’d managed to draw into his lungs out of him; it left him dazed, his vision going alarmingly blurry and his limbs near paralyzed even though adrenaline pumped through him, pushing his heartbeat alarmingly fast. His hair had escaped the small bun he kept it in and now floated around his head, a dark curtain obscuring his vision, even as his clothes and boots threatened to drag him ever downwards.

And then he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eye, a silhouette. Bard froze, his grip on the knife clumsy and awkward, but tight enough to be almost painful. His mouth opened in wordless surprise as he beheld the sight before him: a Mer, with a tail the color of late sunset, shot through with iridescent reds and golds, but darkening to indigo as it narrowed, before flaring out into a mottled sun-and-night fin; with hair that looked like it was woven from pearls and starlight, and a crown of silver-tipped coral inlaid with opal; with a drawn sword that gleamed deadly, singing for blood, and a body pale and hard as if it were chiseled from marble, marred by but a few scars. A part of him registered that the Mer was extraordinarily beautiful, even as he regarded Bard with eyes like chips of iced flint, the precise hue of blue-gray that the sea turned at the onset of a storm. There was something terrifyingly regal about his manner, though surely the Mer-King would not come to deal with a single shipload of humans.

Bard kicked off his boots, letting them drop to hit the sandy bottom that was still several feet down, and began to slowly rise upwards-he would need air for this, whatever _this_ was, and the Mer had not yet moved, only staring at him with those cold, cold eyes. _One more foot_ , he told himself, his lungs burning as he kicked upwards again, suddenly excruciatingly aware of how clumsy and desperate his movements would appear to the Mer below.

He breached the surface with a gasp wrenched from his throat as he choked a breath out and then inhaled, greedily swallowing the air he’d been denied. He coughed, water sputtering in rivulets from his lips and down his chin, the mordant sting of saltwater in his throat clawing against it like a trapped creature.

Bard’s breathing soon slowed to normal, his heart still pounding a frantic rhythm in his chest as he peered into the water, trying to locate the Mer once more, only to find that the water had turned cloudy as if to hide the creature from his sight.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he snarled, waving away the worried calls of his crew though he did wind the rope they tossed down around his waist-better safe than sorry, and if the Mer were to drag him down, enchant him once more so that he did not resist, though such a pretty face was enchantment enough, then surely twenty men could best the Mer in strength.

He ducked under once more, and though he could see no clearer underwater, he still kicked out blindly, swimming directionless towards where he thought he’d last seen the possibly-King. His hands reached out in front of him, searching for contact-any contact, that would tell him where the creature had vanished to.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The voice carried through the water as the sand, churned up from the sandy bottom, he now realized, resettled. It was a smooth baritone, silk over steel, speaking perfect Westron, though with a slight accent; it was a voice that he could listen to forever, layered with the promise of enchantment and mystery, though cool and authoritative. Bard found himself opening his own mouth to answer before it registered that he was underwater-and therefore could not.

A flash of irritation crossed the Mer’s face as he came to the same conclusion, and his arm moved in a single, fluid gesture as he said with not a little condescension, “You may speak now, human.”

“Who are you?” were the first words he blurted out, and the water grew lighter somehow, warmer as if with amusement, as if the sea was laughing at him. No, he corrected himself, looking at the Mer. As if the King of the Seas were laughing at him.

“You venture into my waters yet you know not of me?” His voice held a note of rich amusement, yet it was brittle, hollow. “I am the Ocean King, all Mer bow to me, and this is my domain.”

Shit.

 “I am Bard,” he replied, proud that his voice did not waver though he was reeling inside. This was perhaps the most dangerous situation he’d ever been in, and he needed to get out alive, he still needed that gold. “They call me ‘Bowman’, though I would not presume that one of such stature as yourself has heard of me.”

“You presume correctly,” the King said carelessly. “But I care not for your identity, all you _cleft_ ,” here, disgust colored his tone, “are the same to me. What is your purpose here?”

“I was sent here to capture the Mer known as Thranduil,” he confessed honestly, meeting the Mer’s intense stare unflinchingly.

And then the King laughed, threw his head back and laughed, a long, musical sound like the tolling of celebratory bells, the ocean swirling with cold currents around him, pinning him down where he was.

“You are…serious, then?” the King asked after his peals of laughter had died down, though a cold sort of amusement still shone in his eyes.

“Yes, though I do not understand what you find so humorous about it. I came here thinking that I would stay three days and three nights without seeing a Mer, then return to collect my reward and give the news that there was nothing here,” Bard narrowed his eyes. Was this Thranduil dead, then?

“What I find so humorous, human,” the King crooked a finger, and the currents thickened, pulling him closer, “is that _I_ am Thranduil. You could not capture me with a single net of mithril, and you could not do it if you had armies at your disposal.”

Oh, _fuck._ Bard was absolutely going to murder Oakenshield when he next saw him. If he next saw him. Had the Dwarrow lost his mind? Sending him to capture the Ocean King? How was Bard supposed to know that this ‘Thranduil’ was the most powerful Mer to reside in the seas for eons? Fiction though he thought it, the title would certainly have changed Bard’s mind on agreeing to this foolish quest; no amount of gold would have been enough to convince him, or his crew, for that matter, to attempt to capture such a being. 

“Now,” Thranduil continued, his voice going dangerously soft, “who was it that sent you on this foolhardy quest?”

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Bard answered honestly, rage growing inside him and warming his chest against the ever-cooling currents that wrapped around it, tightening sharply at the mention of the Dwarrow’s name.

“Oakenshield,” the King spat, whirling around as fury danced in his own eyes. “You will tell him _nothing_ , Bowman, or I swear I will drown you and everyone you care about. You will tell that piece of filth that you found nothing!”

Bard nodded, fear solidifying into a weight in his stomach, his hands shaking and heart beating fast, his breath quickening as he realized just how outmatched he really was.

“I will spare you today,” Thranduil snarled, baring teeth sharp like a shark’s, “because if you do not return, Oakenshield will come here. And he will _never_ enter these waters again.”

“O-of course,” Bard choked out. Gratitude flooded him and he nodded frantically, trying to calm himself.

“Good, now get out of my sight.” Another elegant gesture, sharp as a knife slicing a throat, sent the currents shoving him up, up and out of the water, dropping him unceremoniously onto the deck of the _Esgaroth_ before he could so much as blink.

“Captain?” his first mate asked, his voice trembling. “Wha’ h-happened?”

“I,” Bard growled out, standing up unsteadily, his hair and clothes plastered uncomfortably to his body as the chill air of the night bit into him, “am going to fucking _murder_ Thorin Oakenshield.”

!~!~!~!

_Oakenshield._

Thranduil let out a wordless snarl, the ocean bleeding inky darkness around him, flakes of frost forming as it grew icy cold with his rage.

What in the seven hells did Oakenshield want from him? He’d passed through on his idiotic quest to regain the treasure of his mad grandfather, yes, but that had been years ago, and he’d not heard of success or failure. Though, he realized, his lips turning down into a snarl, Bard (the human, he corrected himself furiously), had said that he’d been promised a reward.

And sending a human-it was a smart move, but one of a craven. Did Oakenshied fear him such? Thranduil rather liked the thought of that, more than he would admit, but to send such a human, one clearly so soft, on a quest like this-that was sheer folly. This Bard, with his long, grim face and dark hair, with his eyes that held something still innocent and hopeful and too young for this world, he would not have been able to capture any living thing; he was a pirate, that much was clear, but he had _compassion_ , and that made him soft, weak. Something inside him ached at the thought of Bard becoming cold, distant, ruthless.

(Becoming like Thranduil).

That softness in his eyes, that openness, it reminded him too much of Legolas, too much of his father. No, the human could never turn into him, he was cut from a different cloth entirely.

“Ada!” Legolas’ voice drew him out of his thoughts, and he looked to his right to see a bright blur rushing towards him.

“Legolas, iônen,” he greeted his son, some of the rage melting away instantly.

“The humans, are they-?” the other broke off, a troubled expression crossing his face.

“They live,” Thranduil replied coolly, sheathing his sword in languid, purposeful meaning. “Their captain, a man by the name of Bard the Bowman, he said that they were sent here by Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Bard the Bowman?” Legolas sounded rather shocked, and Thranduil found it odd that he focused on the human captain rather than the Dwarrow his father had an age-old enmity with. The Dwarrow that had almost killed him by leading a pack of Orcs through the reef. 

“Do you know of him?” This was not curiosity, this was Thranduil gathering information on his enemy, plain and simple.

“Do you not? He was the one who slew Smaug near Erebor. They call him ‘Bowman’  because he did so with a black arrow, and ‘Dragonslayer’, and many things besides.”

“He did not mention anything of that,” Thranduil murmured, his brows drawing down into a slight frown.

“I have heard he is quite humble,” Legolas shrugged. “Though I do wonder what he is doing in Oakenshield’s employ. One of the Mer passing through said that Bard had returned to his home town to care for his children after the battle.”

“I do wonder,” he echoed, briefly lapsing into silence. Perhaps such a human had not been a bad choice after all; Smaug had been one of the Fire Drakes, a monstrosity that was half human, half beast, with the power to captivate mortals with a mere glance, and to breathe fire-utterly invulnerable, and completely ruthless, Smaug had used this to accumulate a vast hoard of treasure-Thrór’s, to be precise. Some even said that he could change his form at will, letting the beast side take over completely. To think that a mere human could slay him, where so many others, including Mer, had failed.

“He must be quite exceptional for a human, especially since you let him go,” Legolas continued on merrily, with a cheeky grin at his father. “It is said that he is not difficult to look at, either.”

“Don’t be insolent,” Thranduil retorted loftily. “All humans are hideous, and I only let him go because I do not wish to bring Oakenshield here.”

“Of course, ada,” his son bowed, his curtain of hair concealing a grin.

Ridiculous, the nerve of the Prince at times. To think that his father would be so swayed by a pretty face-not, of course, that he found the human fair to behold. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the delay, I was working on the two other fics I posted yesterday, and this one was giving me some irritating writer's block, especially on Thranduil's part, so it's a bit short and a bit of a filler chapter. I fear my muse is beginning to fade on this one, but don't you worry, I'll keep at it. Rewatching the Hobbit movies will probably help, and I plan on doing that later today.  
> Anyway, here's Wonderwall. And by Wonderwall, I mean the fourth chapter :)  
> Thank you soooo much to all who commented and left kudos, you're all brilliant and I'm so happy you're enjoying the story <3
> 
> ~K

They set sail after an embarrassing amount of fussing, as soon as Bard was able to reassure his crew that he was perfectly fine-and no, that was not Thranduil, in fact, the Mer he’d talked to had said that Thranduil never left the palace anymore, and they really should be going, because now that it was obvious there were Mer in the water, who would want to risk staying here longer?

The line of logic worked satisfyingly well, though it didn’t sit right with Bard that he had to lie to his crew. But he knew that it was the right thing to do, in this case; they’d find out precisely what happened and be up in arms in a minute, clamoring to go back for the gold, once they learned the reward was in reach. They’d mutiny and sail right into their deaths, and Bard would not have them risk their lives like that. He couldn’t-it was his duty as Captain to protect his crew. Even if it meant lying to them.

“We’ve figured out the fastest way outta ‘ere,” Alonso, the navigator, taps his shoulder, beckoning him over to their expansive, faded-yellow map, details lovingly drawn in by the man himself.

“What is it, then?” Bard asked, clapping him on the shoulder in congratulations. Alonso was one of the best, though he was a superstitious sort, having grown up near the fabled ruins of the Witch Kingdom of Angmar-how he’d ended up on the seas, Bard had no idea, though he certainly was grateful for it.

A slim, dark finger traced a line on the map, hastily sketched in pencil over the dark, dark ink.

They set sail after an embarrassing amount of fussing, as soon as Bard was able to reassure his crew that he was perfectly fine-and no, that was not Thranduil, in fact, the Mer he’d talked to had said that Thranduil never left the palace anymore, and they really should be going, because now that it was obvious there were Mer in the water, who would want to risk staying here longer?

The line of logic worked satisfyingly well, though it didn’t sit right with Bard that he had to lie to his crew. But he knew that it was the right thing to do, in this case; they’d find out precisely what happened and be up in arms in a minute, clamoring to go back for the gold, once they learned the reward was in reach. They’d mutiny and sail right into their deaths, and Bard would not have them risk their lives like that. He couldn’t-it was his duty as Captain to protect his crew. Even if it meant lying to them.

“We’ve figured out the fastest way outta ‘ere,” Alonso, the navigator, taps his shoulder, beckoning him over to their expansive, faded-yellow map, details lovingly drawn in by the man himself.

“What is it, then?” Bard asked, clapping him on the shoulder in congratulations. Alonso was one of the best, though he was a superstitious sort, having grown up near the fabled ruins of the Witch Kingdom of Angmar-how he’d ended up on the seas, Bard had no idea, though he certainly was grateful for it.

A slim, dark finger traced a line on the map, hastily sketched in pencil over the dark, dark ink.

“Right ‘ere, Cap. There’s a current that’ll take us right on over to Erebor, where we can get our gold.” Bard leaned over, squinting to read the faint squiggles on the paper-he’d never been particularly skilled at the written word; though he did know how to read, he’d been brought up as a simple fisherman, and words on a page simply meant instructions he had to follow. As a pirate, they certainly were important, but often amounted to the same thing, with particularly unpleasant consequences for failing to follow the instructions.

“It seems sound, though…,” Bard paused, staring at a mark on the map that he desperately hoped was simply a slip of the hand. “What is that?” He tapped the mark, just outside the border of the Mer Kingdom.

“That. That is Dol Guldur,” Alonso whispered, his hand shaking as he made a gesture to ward off evil, smooth and well-practiced.

“I have heard dark things of that place,” Bard narrowed his eyes. It was known as the Graveyard of Ships by all sailors, pirates and navy alike-none ventured near, excepting the most desperate of situations, and none that entered, left alive.

“It is an evil place, but are we not desperate? It is the fastest way, and with the time of year, should we go around, we would be caught in the doldrums. It is the only way.” Alonso looked deeply grieved by the course that they would take, and Bard couldn’t help but sympathize with him. They did not have the supplies to row through the doldrums, and the current flowing through Dol Guldur was fast and strong, and would bear them right to Erebor’s shores.

“We set sail,” Bard replied grimly, gritting his teeth. “We set sail!” He repeated, letting his voice carry through the entire ship, his crew immediately scrambling to ready the ship to catch the breeze that had been toying with the furled sails for the past hour.

They laughed as they worked, happy to leave the Merwater for an ocean that held kinder inclinations to the incursions of mankind. Bard just hoped that he wasn’t leading them to their deaths.

!~!~!~!

Thranduil was reclining on his throne, eyes closed, his face a veneer of boredom. He breathed deeply, frowning as he detected a hint of foulness in the water, the faintest of taints, sour-slick and bilious on his tongue. He tasted the water again, his brows twisting downwards as he realized it was still present-something was wrong. He tried to puzzle it out, extending his power to find its source, reaching further, further-

The door to the throne room swung open, the Captain of the Guard bursting in. 

He cracked an eye open lazily, smothering the brief flicker of irritation at the breach to his concentration, regarding her wide, worried eyes and flushed cheeks, her gills wide slits on her neck and sides. Something was definitely wrong. 

“Your Majesty,” Tauriel bowed hastily, as soon as she’d regained her breath. “There’s been news from the border-another Upwelling, worse than the last time. There is something new this time, a great, swollen blackness with many tentacles that taints the water near it. Should I take the Guard and go forth?”

“No,” Thranduil shook his head, the water around him chilling slightly. “Legolas and I will come with you. This is dire news indeed, Tauriel.”

“Y-yes, my liege,” she bowed low, though her expression betrayed shock at his use of her name. “I shall find the Prince, then?”

“Yes. Find him and meet me at the gate as soon as possible.” He rose, the seas shimmering around him as mithril armor rippled into place, engraved and shining, it adhered perfectly to the contours of his body. His crown, too, changed, morphing into a dark twist of metal and black pearl, sitting in jagged spikes upon his brow; Thranduil grabbed his sword and pulled a current around him and _twisted_ , rocketing to the gate.

It could not be, not in a common Upwelling; creatures such as the one the Captain had described, they could only be some demonic spawn of the Ungoliant, an ancient evil that was the mother of all the world’s monsters. But she and her vile offspring had been banished to the Abyss of the Deeps, trapped in Torech Ungol, a labyrinth of their own making, since before the fall of the glorious Mer kingdom of Gondolin, before even Thranduil’s birth.

A shadow passed over the palace moving rather quickly to the South-the same direction they were about to set out in, Thranduil realized, narrowing his eyes. He looked up, almost groaning in frustration and letting his perfect façade slip as he realized precisely what was above him-it was a ship. Bard’s ship. Surely the pirate would not be that stupid, to venture near Dol Guldur; even the humans had their misgivings, their dark tales, of the place, and Thranduil had not seen one attempt to make the passage for many years. The sands near the ocean floor of the place were littered with the wooden carcasses of ships sunk in the past, hollow, rotted things now claimed by the ocean-though there were no bones to be found in them, no signs of the sailors that had drowned with them.

Thranduil scowled up at the ship-that human just had to make things so much more complicated. There were numerous other routes, though none with a current as strong as swift as that leading through the ruined fortress, and the Bowman had time, did he not? The stupidity of humans would never cease to amaze him, he thought with a vicious sneer, tamping down a flicker of what could be concern. Now was not the time to worry about one of the cleft, he reminded himself, as Legolas and Tauriel approached, clad in full battle regalia, their faces grim and determined.

Now, it was time to protect his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took long. But behold, the emerging of another plot! It's not a subplot since it just sort of kicked Thorin's plot over there out of the water (Bard wishes he were that plot and out of the water).   
> Thank you to all who left kudos and comments, you guys are the absolute best <3
> 
> ~K

 

They left the Merwater quickly enough, stained sails, tattered near the edges but still functional, reveling in their dance with the sea breeze; soon, the turquoise waters were far gone, and the open ocean loomed before them-the open ocean, and Dol Guldur, the Ships’ Grave, with a maelstrom that churned the sea into froth and wrath just visible on the horizon.

Bard shuddered, a chill scratching jagged fingers down his spine. _It is the only way_ , he reminded himself, hands clenching tight around the wheel. And it was, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. His jaw tightened as he cast his ever-watchful eye across the choppy, inky-dark waters, broken only by violent caps of foam and spray as they drew ever closer to the Orc Pit-Bard did not know why the whirlpool was named for such foul creatures, and he did not wish to venture close enough to find out. The slimy, amphibious aberrations, bred from tortured and deformed Mer to nurture evil and bloodlust within their twisted souls, had grown in number, he’d heard, apparently spurred on by the Pale Orc, a being so vile it had earned the moniker of the Defiler.

He had faced and defeated a dragon, but Azog the Defiler was a creature Bard never wanted to meet. Especially not now that he was affiliated with Thorin Oakenshield and Durin’s Line, no matter how tenuous the association; Azog’s oath to wipe out every single Dwarrow with Durin’s blood, no matter how diluted, was notorious.

“Keep your eyes open!” he shouted over the muted roars of the Pit. “There are rocks and crags alike here, easy to run aground no matter how deep and dark the water seems, and I’ve heard tell of Orcs in these waters!”

His words infused the crew with a sort of frenzied energy; every man was now staring intently at the water, looking for even the slightest flicker of movement that did not belong to the waves. Bard did not want to scare them such, but it was far better they be watchful for nothing than reckless and lose everything.

He intended to make it through this water, with his ship and crew intact, come Orc or Goblin or the Necromancer himself, though Bard privately hoped that was naught but a rumor. Bard gazed down at the waves beneath him, though he clung to the rail, for he still remembered how pathetically _easy_ it had been for the Mer King to simply snatch him off his boat-and how easy it would be for something else, something more sinister to do the same. And they wouldn’t simply want to talk, they would go right for his throat, and there would be no Mer King with starlit hair and piercing eyes to save him then.

Bard couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever see Thranduil again-it wasn’t entirely his fault, since the King was so damned beautiful that Bard would be surprised to learn of a mortal that saw him and did not love him a little afterwards-not, of course, that Bard loved him; no, he knew that the Mer were dangerous, wily creatures, and their King most of all. It was simply curiosity that drove his thoughts, for these waters were oddly close to the southern border of the Merwater, and yet the King allowed dark things to breed and thrive so close to him? Bard was no king, no matter the mutters in the night that had eventually caused him to leave Esgaroth, and yet he knew that the Mer King’s decision was unwise.

He could not understand the reasoning behind it, nor the lack of foresight he knew to be uncharacteristic.

“Cap’n,” he turned his head to see Rus beckoning him over, his voice a hoarse, frightened whisper. Bard’s blood turned to ice in his veins, fear curling in his stomach, churning like a mirror of the Pit that was already sucking them closer, as he strode over to his first mate, as quiet as possible.

“There’s something in the water.”

And then the ocean exploded around them in an eruption of foam and chittering, manic eyes and the odor of rotting fish.

!~!~!~!

Thranduil snarled, the liquid flash of his armor dulled by the dark, slick viscosity that covered it, even more staining the water as he yanked his blade free, a current moving to flick the Orc corpse to the side carelessly, even as three more surged forward to take its place.

He despised these abominations, despised Morgoth who created them in eons past, despised Morgoth’s servants who continued to breed them. The ocean, cold and dark and inherently _wrong_ this close to Dol Guldur, swarmed with the Orcs, their bodies pale like the underbelly of a fish, their eyes luminous and bulging, their claws deathly sharp even though they were wrapped around crude weapons that could still deal significant damage.

Thranduil ducked just in time to avoid a swing from one, parrying another that swept in from his left, whirling to slice through their disgusting guts. There should not be this many, not in addition to the vile presence he sensed lurking just behind the first crumbling tower of black stone.

“Tauriel!” he called, commanding even as he swum closer to her, pulling currents close and tightening them around Orc necks until they snapped, chilling the water until the foul things’ blood froze within them.

“Yes, my lord?” she shouted back, raising her voice to be heard above the din of battle, ducking and whirling, her form and movements fluid as they dealt death to those foolish enough to attempt to attack her.

“You and Legolas finish things here. I will go end the Ungoliant’s demon spawn,” he spat, and was gone after she gave him the barest of nods to the affirmative, rocketing towards the ruined tower.

The darkness grew more concentrated, thicker, more alive; even he found its crushing presence difficult to breathe in (where were these things coming from? Dark forces were at work, and he would have to consult Mithrandir as soon as he returned).

“Come,” he demanded, his armor shimmering into a green and silver raiment, near impenetrable-and he would need it, along with Ulmo’s blessing, for the creature surged forth as if it had been waiting for his voice, all innumerable slick-black tentacles and red bloated eyes, and a body encased in a hard exoskeleton, all dark jagged points culminating in something akin to a twisted helm upon what he assumed was its brow, for it sat above eyes and the furiously gnashing teeth, misshapen but no less sharp for it.

It barreled into him, its jaw clicking as it ground out words in a speech that sent shudders down his spine and unease coalescing in his gut.

_“Little Mer, so fragile in your power. If only I could drain you dry like I wanted, taste that succulent flesh. But the Master wants you whole. The Master says I cannot feed on you. Though the Master said nothing about your son.”_

Half-formed questions of who this ‘Master’ was fled his mind as soon as the eyes shifted to Legolas, his precious child, as soon as the last word left its hideous slash of a mouth. A scream of pure rage ripped from his throat, the oceans resonating with the sound as a wave of water blasted into it, dashing it against the barely-standing tower, sending the black rock cascading down upon it.

Thranduil straightened his spine, holding his blade at the ready as he swam closer, already weaving a net of currents to trap the creature.

“What are you?” he spoke calmly, though fury burned bright beneath his tone.

 _“I am Shelob. You know not who I am. You know not of what I can do, as the greatest of Mother’s litter! I ate my siblings in their fragile little eggs, I ate them when they were young and when they grew old and strong, and I took their power just as the Master will take yours, little Mer,”_ Shelob’s voice dropped to a mocking whisper, her mouth widening with greed. The name was unfamiliar, the threat to himself worrying.

“Who is this Master you speak of?” Thranduil asked, circling around her, his net moving ever-closer-soon, she would be caught in it, unable to escape. Then, he could interrogate her at will, pry every single answer from her.

 _“You know not who I am, little Mer, but you know of the Master. You have tasted his darkness, so delicious and thick. You have looked into his infernal eyes and felt the fear, sweet, sweet fear, that he inspires. You have seen how the land and seas tremble before his footsteps, seen the death and destruction he wreaks.”_ Thranduil froze-no, it could not be, he had been shut away, banished, chained within the fires of Mount Doom, and under the observation of Isengard. It could not be.

 _“And yet it is,”_ Shelob purred, indolent in her satisfaction at the utter shock he knew was on his face. _“You cannot stop him, little Mer. None can. He will sweep over this world in a tidal wave of despair and desolation, and then he will rule. He will destroy all you care about, and then destroy you, too.”_

A wordless howl left his lips as he pulled the currents taut around her, taking vicious pleasure in her agonized, surprised screech.

“Do not be so sure,” he snarled savagely, plunging his blade deep into her breast, and holding it there though she writhed and darkness flooded forth as the taint in the water grew bitter and thick; he held it until her movements stilled and the bloody light in her eyes dimmed-only then did he pull his blade free and let her carcass join the others on the ocean bed.

Exhaustion crashed over him-he had not exercised that much of his control over the currents in quite some time-enough exhaustion that had he not been looking up, he would have missed the shadow above the water that meant a ship, and the immediate upsurge of Orcs towards it.

The Bowman.

!~!~!~!

The first Orc sprang onto the deck, landing heavily and making the planks of the ship creak and groan beneath its weight. It advanced towards Bard hefting a vicious looking blade, its jagged edges forged from some black metal Bard could not name. He drew his bow-it had been strung, arrows sharpened and fletched before they had entered the waters near the Pit-and fired an arrow straight through its throat, pinning it to the mast.

He glanced around deck, only to find it in complete chaos, Orcs swarming and nearly overrunning the crew, for more and more clambered up the sides, bearing hideous snarls and equally hideous weapons, and deadly intent in their eyes. Bard drew another arrow, falling into the rhythm of his craft that had earned him his name.  

Draw, aim, release. Over, and over, and over, always on guard for an attack to himself, though it was never overly difficult to penetrate a soft belly or throat with an arrow before returning it to his waiting bow. Over and over and over, ducking and dodging and firing and never missing, because an inch could be the difference between life and death. Time blurred for him-there was only the thunder of his heartbeat and the harsh rasp of his breath and sweat dripping down his face, his palms, though that could just as easily have been blood.

And then he ran out of arrows, his hand coming up empty when he reached to his quiver for one more.

“Shit,” he muttered, slinging the bow over his shoulder and drawing his sword, his hands finding an uneasy grip on its hilt. It was not his weapon of choice, and as such he’d never practiced it as much as he should have before setting sail. His arrows had always been enough, yet now there weren’t and still the Orcs came, though fewer in number, for he was backed against the ship’s bow and could see splashes and blood and flashes of iridescent scales in the murk below-the Mer were fighting, too, though they could not stop everything.

The sky, which had until then remained a resolute, stormy grey, cracked open in a flash of light followed by a howl of thunder and an instant deluge, icy rain pouring forth and soaking Bard to the bone in a matter of seconds; the rain dripped down his brow, the water stinging his eyes and making it near impossible to see, making his hands fumble on his sword. And blows rained down on him, too, hard and strong and he was barely fast enough to manage a proper parry, blinded as he was. His arms burned in protest, even as some of the hits found their mark, stinging lacerations on his torso and legs, slicing through the wet linen on his chest and back, and the coarse fabric of his breeches.

He knew he would not be able to go on fighting for much longer, trapped as he was. But he also knew that he could not stop despite the fatigue that plagued his limbs, despite the cuts that screamed in agony every time he moved-he would have several new scars for trophies should he ever return from this, maybe even a few marring the red-gold scales of the tattoo curled upon the canvas of his back.

Bard could not help but dwell on what a shame that would be, his distracted mind as exhausted as his body-he had no idea how long he had been fighting for, nor of how long he would have to continue fighting for. He steadied himself against the railing that encircled the bow, ignoring how it groaned beneath his weight, holding his blade straight out as an Orc crashed into him, already wounded, though its blade found a resting place in Bard’s shoulder-agony ripped through him as he screamed, leaning, twisting, slipping backwards, anything to get _away_ from the pain.

 _Crack_.

And then for the second time in approximately twenty-four hours, Bard was falling from his ship into the churning waters below.

The last thing he saw as he toppled into the ocean, dragged down into the tempest-tossed, icy depths by the weight of a dead Orc, was the crimson that stained Rus’ shirt as a blade protruded from his chest, and the way his first mate paled and crumpled around it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, this took me far too long to get right.  
> To be honest, most of it was finding a name for the healer.

Bard awoke to a green-blue tint in his gaze and a searing pain in his side, a howled curse on his lips and a hand reaching for a weapon on his side that was no longer there. He awoke to hands, cold and unyielding, like steel wrapped in skin, like iron bars wound around his chest, holding him still.

“Calm yourself,” a lilting voice instructed him-quiet yet soothing, the soft rush of a babbling brook at midday. Bard’s muscles instantly relaxed, and he slumped down into the grip that supported him.

“W-where am I?” he rasped out, but his voice sounded warped, distorted…as if he were underwater.

Because he was underwater.

The Orc. Dol Guldur. His ship, his beautiful ship.

And then water, the mordant sting filling his lungs and weighing him down. Black blood and a dark slick like spilled oil clouded the icy water that dragged him ever downwards.

That was where his memory failed him.

“Am I..dead?” he found it difficult to believe that the afterlife was one submerged under the seas, but the tales of Ulmo’s Realm being for those who lost their hearts and lives to the sea had to come from somewhere, right? After all, if Aulë could set one aside for his precious Dwarrows, then who was to say that Ulmo would not do the same for those whose souls were a shoreline long shaped by the sea? But his children, his _children_ -he would never see them again, never be near them, never hold them and kiss them and laugh with them, and Bard’s heart constricted in his chest at the thought, an agonizing paroxysm of grief.

“No,” the voice responded coolly, and Bard felt relief roll over him like a gentle wave. He would see them again. He was alive.

His body drained from the brief outburst (how long _had_ he been out?), he slumped bonelessly into the cot beneath him.

“I trust that you will remain still, and I will answer your questions as I check and redress your wounds.” The arms around him vanished, leaving naught but the soft swirl of a current caressing his bare chest, crossed with brackish green bandages that appeared to be crafted from seaweed.

He nodded, resisting the urge to lean forward, for now he noticed a dull throb covering the entirety of his right side, crescendoing to an acute burn over his ribs, mirrored on the same spot on his back.

“You are in the infirmary of Eryn Lasgalen.” Cool fingers unwrapped his bandages with detached dexterity. Bard glanced down and immediately flinched-of what he could see, all of it was covered with extensive bruising and several new scars, the most prominent of which was one a quarter of an inch thick and near four inches wide, still healing and marked by congealed blood at the epicenter of a purple-green mass.

“What happened..?” Bard remembered what had happened to his crew well enough, and his stomach lurched at the thought; they had been good men, they had not deserved the end that they had met. And all because he made the decision to go through Dol Guldur, only to save a few more days. Days that his crew had paid for more than thrice over.

“You fell off a ship, leading to the rather remarkable contusions on your side. And then an Orc and his blade fell atop you, in just the wrong way,” the healer responded and gestured rather carelessly to the largest scar.

“I didn’t-,”

“It happened after you lost consciousness in the water,” the healer explained, spreading a gritty salve with a feather-light touch across his chest. “I can’t say I’ve ever treated a human before, but I do say this turned out well.”

Bard swallowed nervously, nodding. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had survived, and a small, dark part of him hissed that he should not have. _A captain always goes down with his ship_ , it whispered, sinuous and sibilant and taunting.

A captain always goes down with his ship.

“My name is Gaelaer, in case you wished to know who saved your life,” the Mer winked at him, the sound of his lyrical voice forced the other to retreat instantly, deep into the shadows of his mind from whence it would come forth to plague him at the soonest available opportunity.

“Bard,” he replied, his voice rusty and cracked. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, Master Gaelaer.”

“I was simply doing my job,” he shrugged, his hair, cropped unusually short, floating in a dark halo about his head. Bard couldn’t help but compare him to the Merking, the only other of the water-dwellers he had met; where Thranduil was imperious, Gaelaer appeared kind; where Thranduil wore power like a cloak, Gaelaer was more unassuming; where Thranduil’s eyes and mien were cold, Gaelaer’s were open and warm, like the sunlit-warmed shallows of a tidal pool. Bard had never expected a Mer to seem this…human.

“Then I owe your job a debt of gratitude,” Bard said solemnly, staring at the whorls of coral upon the ceiling as Gaelaer poked and prodded at his chest before changing the bandages.

“Perhaps. You’ll survive, and I’ll thank you to not go around undoing all my work,” he narrowed his eyes, as if he’d heard the little voice in the back of Bard’s mind. “I’ve more than enough patients to tend to without adding you to the list of those critically wounded. Again.”

“Others?” Bard could not help the hope that surged into his chest, effervescent and buoyant.

“Mer,” Gaelaer clarified, his gaze sad and solemn.

“Oh.” The sound escaped his lips, deflated and crushed by disappointment and renewed grief.

“I shall leave you to your mourning soon, Bard,” the healer murmured, his eyes drifting shut as he reclined on an empty cot next to him.

“You seem exhausted,” he offered, floundering around for something, anything to breach the silence, to distract him.

“Many patients, and yet not enough healers. Tis exhausting work, Bard,” Gaelaer sighed, the curious slits in his neck dilating and contracting as he blew a soft current across the room.

“Why are so many Mer wounded?” Bard asked. Surely the ship going down had not hurt any? They had been well away from the Merwater when the attack had come.

“The Orcs did not just attack you in those waters, though I will say that you are quite lucky that nothing worse did. And that my King was in a generous mood,” a wry grin tugged at the corner of Gaelaer’s mouth, revealing a row of jagged-sharp teeth.

“I’m sorry.” Even as he said it, he felt the inadequacy of the words.

“It was not your fault. There are fell things rising,” the healer mused quietly, lapsing into silence and his own thoughts, though his presence remained calming. “I must take my leave of you, Bard, though you prove a far better conversationalist awake than on death’s door.”

!~!~!~!

Thranduil swum into the infirmary with more fatigue present in his limbs than he would like-it had been long since he had last seen battle, and even longer since he had fought against such a formidable foe. His arms were sore, his bruises ached, and the places where the tentacles of the vile Shelob had touched him were scarred and raised, as if he’d been burned. No poison had been detected in the wounds, though, something Thranduil viewed as nigh miraculous, especially with the heavy taint in the water.

He gestured Gaelaer over with a flick of his hand, bade him to rise from the deep bow he entered into with another.

“My Lord,” the healer said respectfully, his usual capricious manner, so popular with his patients, carefully veiled.

“I am here, as you requested,” he replied, crossing his arms. “And I can assure you that I am in the best of shape-all that plagues me is a slight pain and fatigue.”

“As is to be expected, after such a fight. You exhausted quite a bit of your magic afterwards, with the ablution,’ Gaelaer murmured, running light fingers over the raised ridges of the scars. “These have healed well, and the bruises should fade by tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Thranduil nodded his thanks. He would send the summons out as soon as he returned to his throne-Mithrandir would need to be called in, for the Wizard would have an explanation, steeped in the arts of magic as he was. And if he did not provide one, he was sure to know someone who could read the portents and shed light on this entire thing. Shelob’s words still echoed in his mind-he needed to be absolutely certain of them before he took any action.

“Also, Your Majesty, the human has regained consciousness, just a half hour ago.”

Thranduil’s shoulders relaxed slightly, releasing tension he’d not known they held. The Man had survived, and he would not have to deal with the wrath of Oakenshield alongside all of this. It had not been a sure thing, not for the week after Tauriel brought the Bowman in, his body bruised and battered and his heart barely beating. Thranduil remembered the fever all too well, how the Man had raved about his children and dead wife and friends, and how he had screamed of dragonfire scorching him and clawed at his back, strong and tanned a golden-brown. And decorated with a shimmering gold-and-red dragon that covered mangled flesh with a mask of beauty in the likeness of Smaug.

His screams had been the worst of all those wounded. 

Thranduil had been amazed, to say the least, though he tried not to show it. Legolas, imp that he was, had mercilessly teased him about the ‘pretty face’, mistaking his awe at meeting a Dragonslayer for something else entirely.

For Ulmo’s sake, he was _cleft._ Human.

To which Legolas argued that the bloodlines weren’t exactly incompatible, and Thranduil had almost thrown something at his son, but settled himself for assigning him more duties-particularly the administrative ones Thranduil had never cared to do but had executed diligently.

“Inform him that he will have an audience with me tomorrow, then,” Thranduil commanded, even as he turned to leave.

“Of course. But Your Majesty?”

“Yes?”

“Do not be too harsh on him. He has lost much,” Gaelaer’s face was drawn, pale and full of sympathy. That was the issue with healers, Thranduil mused, they were simply too empathetic, too compassionate.

“As have we all,” Thranduil reminded the healer, not unkindly. “Yet we must persevere, as must he.”

“That is more difficult than it sounds, my Lord,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

“I am aware. He will be gone soon, Gaelaer. Do not grow too attached.” The warning was clear, and the healer nodded deferentially, bowing before he turned another room in the veritable myriad of the infirmary. Thranduil hoped that he would never see it full; he would rather see the dungeons overflowing with those that would harm his kin, his subjects.

Or, perhaps the pit where they kept bodies too foul to be sent with the Drift ever-downwards to Ulmo’s Realm, or ever-eastwards to the Undying Lands.

Yes, Thranduil preferred that plan to all others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaelaer-from 'gael' which means glimmering, and 'aer', which means sea. A portmanteau created with the Sindarin dictionary. Apparently conjugating verbs is something nigh impossible with this one.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard and Thranduil converse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's been a while and I seriously lost muse for this story for that time, but now I can sort of see where it's going from this point on, and the parts which I don't yet know, I have full confidence that the story will take me through them fairly well.   
> Secondly, I'm also working on a prequel to this, which will be part of the series and very heavy on Bagginshield-it'll detail how Thorin and Bilbo met, how Erebor was reclaimed, why Thorin despises Thranduil and how he and Bard met. Lots of backstory on that one, and I'm extremely excited to post it. However, to avoid almost a month-and-a-half long hiatus, I'll write it all up, then post it in segments, so you won't be seeing it for quite some time. It's definitely in the works though.

_The wind howled in his ears, the gale fierce and unforgiving, battering his ship, which responded with its own deathly medley of creaking wood and snapping wood, and bitten-off curses of the crewmen._

_“Hold her steady!” he shouted, his voice nearly swallowed by the cacophony of the storm, his throat hoarse._

_“Cap’n, we can’t! There are orcs-,” Rus hollered back, his eyes wide and panicked as the fish-pale creatures surged upwards with the next rising wave, foam-smattered and iron grey-the steel sword of the waves finally rebelling against those foolish enough to claim to be their tamer._

_A scream ripped itself from Bard’s throat, but even that is devoured greedily by the ocean as he stared into its churning depths, unable to look at the scene he knew was playing out around him. He pretended that the cries of pain were thunderclaps, the thud of the bodies hitting the wooden deck were the waves beating against the hull, the clattering of the orcs claws as they advance towards him were the chimes rattling on the ship’s prow._

_Faces of the dead blurred into the waves-Rus, Agen, Lowry-all good men, loyal men, men who didn’t deserve to die like they did-, Tilda, Bain, Sigrid-his children, beautiful and innocent, the only good left in his world-, and Laurel-she had loved the sea, too, and it had betrayed her just as it had him._

_He felt an odd shock of warmth at his abdomen, spreading hot and red._

_And then he screamed finally, in bitter twists of pleasure and pain for this is what he deserves-_

“Bard!”

His eyes flew open at the touch of cool hands against his shoulders, slightly rough with callouses, and he relaxes immediately.

“Ru-…oh.” He bit the word off as his eyes finally settled on Gaelaer. Scales, not callouses, he corrected himself, the yawning pit of disappointment and grief widening with a groan within him.

“You were having another nightmare,” the healer informed him quietly, a quick flick of his long tail-a mottled golden yellow, like a flash of liquid sunlight, propelling him to settle on the edge of Bard’s alcove of a bed.

“I was,” he replied, the words heavy and strange on his tongue.

A captain always goes down with his ship. And yet he’d failed his crew in the worst way possible. His crew and his family both.

“You lived, did you not?” Gaelaer’s voice was quiet, a soft lilt that sounds like the waves gently lapping against the shore in a whisper. “That is what they would have wanted, not some odd cleft tradition.”

“It’s a matter of loyalty, Master Gaelaer,” Bard sighed out, his splayed fingers curling into a clenched fist.

“Loyalty to whom? The dead? Your crew died for you because they were loyal, Bowman,” Gaelaer’s eyes peered into his, the strangely alive turquoise searching, looking.

“And it is my duty, as captain, to die for them. To go down with my ship,” Bard choked out against the knot in his throat, tears coming to his eyes unbidden.

“They would not have wanted that,” Gaelaer repeated once more, and Bard knew that it was true. His crew would have wanted him to return to his children, to live on and remember them-yet the guilt remained, for he was supposed to protect them, it was his call to make, and he had chosen the path that led to their doom.

Who was he to say that their vengeful spirits would not have wanted him dead for that?

“As you say,” he managed to respond, tearing his eyes away from Gaelaer’s gaze-too knowing, too sharp and too soft at the same time.

“Why are you here, in any event?” Bard attempted to change the conversation, swerve into a new direction, one less painful.

“The King wished to speak with you, Bard,” the healer murmured, tilting his head to the arch that heralded the entrance to the infirmary. “Though if you are not feeling well, I can easily chase him off.”

Bard smiled weakly, a surge of gratitude towards Gaelaer taking him almost by surprise.

“It’s quite alright. Gaelaer,” he attempted to pronounce the name, and by the quick smile that darts across the other’s face, he must have butchered it completely. “I’ll manage with him.”

Gaelaer nodded solemnly, straightening before curving into a bow, the arch of his spine a supple fold.

“My lord,” he waited for the Mer King to drift into the room, borne in by a caress of a warm current, before he left, giving Bard a reassuring smile behind his back. Bard returned it, though his stomach churned with worry-he could not look weak in front of Thranduil; it shamed him to know that King had seen him in such a state.

“Bowman.” The word was curt, spoken in that same, nonchalant tone. Bard flinched at the title-from Gaelaer, it sounded the same as the greetings that echoed through the docks whenever he returned to Esgaroth. From Thranduil, though, it was cold, almost an insult.

“Your Majesty,” he struggled up until his back was straight and he was sitting upright, his spine resting against the worn-smooth wall of the alcove. “You wished to speak to me?”

“Clearly. I have a few questions concerning Oakenshield,” Thranduil spoke. Bard’s eyes followed the few strands of his hair that managed to escape the weight of the mithril strands cascading downwards from the crown at his brown-they drifted along a light current, flashes of quicksilver in the water.

“He hired me to capture you if possible. Find out if you were alive or dead,” Bard finally replied, his voice hollow and decidedly neutral. His meeting with the mad pirate-king seemed to belong to another life now, a past that he could only return to in memories.

“Did he state why?” Thranduil pressed on, his voice lowering slightly. “Did he give any specific reason, or instructions?”

“Only those involving the use of the mithril net,” Bard shook his head, struggling to remember. “Perhaps you could answer a question of mine for each of yours I answer…a fair trade, as it were.”

Bard keenly felt the lack of knowledge, the isolation from the surface-now, more so than ever; this was his only hope of finding anything out while still healing, still an invalid prisoner-though with the kindest jailer he’d met.

“Done,” Thranduil responded almost immediately, the note of dismissal clear in his voice-he cared not if Bard knew of the surface or not.

“Does he know of the attack on my ship, my men?” the question had been burning within him almost as soon as Thranduil had mentioned the Dwarrow. If Oakenshield knew, then Esgaroth certainly knew. And so did his children.

“He does.” The words felt like a hand snaking around his heart and _squeezing_ , a pain that lanced through his chest and cracked the festering wound of his grief wide open once more.

“My children,” he only half-heard the words escaping his lips in a pained whimper as he bowed his head, feeling the sting of tears at his eyes-funny, that he should feel it underwater.

Bain, Sigrid, Tilda. They had known enough loss, with their mother gone and Bard always absent. And now, now they would think him dead, and Bain would turn to the seas as well, wouldn’t he? The selfsame hungry maw of water that had claimed the lives of his parents. They’d always begged him not to go, not to leave them, to take a job on the land-and he’d always deferred it with a ‘next time’, or a ‘when I return’, for how could he explain that he, too, loved the ocean with a fierce passion, loved the freedom and danger and simplicity it promised?

On the _Esgaroth_ , he had only the responsibility for his ship and his crew and himself-and they trusted him implicitly, wouldn’t make things complicated. They wouldn’t play games with words and lay deadly traps in lengthy letters Bard could barely read. They wouldn’t try and force him into a role he did not want.

And how could he tell his children that the ocean was the only thing that reminded him of their mother? His Laurel, trapped in the wreck of the ship he’d built and named for her; each wave was a siren song of her voice, forever reminding him of his loss, and yet it comforted him to be so close to her. They had met at sea, and it was the sea that separated him.

“Did Oakenshield give a reason as to why he thought me dead?” Thranduil continued coolly, his liquid-cold voice startling Bard into awareness, dragging him back from the depths of his misery.

“No.” He felt hollow-was hollow-his grief scooping out whatever was left within him to feel. “Why were you in Dol Guldur?”

“Because there were orcs there. My Mer needed me. Why were you there?”

“I needed to get back to Oakenshield, remember?” his mouth twisted up into a bitter smile. “A week, he gave me, and three days I stayed, but two I took to arrive. I was running short on time-there was a current near there, one that would take me almost directly Erebor.”

“I know of it, but the risk-,”

“The risk was calculated and the decision made,” Bard snapped, his eyes flashing upwards to glare at the Mer King. “It was a mistake that has cost me the lives of my crew-and my own, I assume.”

“You should not have sailed in those waters, Bowman,” Thranduil simply said in response, his gaze cool and impassive as ever.

“There’s no changing the past, Mer King. What’s done is done, and we are left to pick up the pieces.”

Bard turned away then, not caring if the King thought him rude, or unreasonable, or anything of the sort. Hell, the Mer could have taken away the magic that kept him breathing underwater, or run him through with the blade at his hip, and Bard would not have cared.

He’d lost everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I hope you enjoyed and feel free to message me at crownlessliestheking.tumblr.com if you'd like to chat about stories and headcanons.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaelaer hands Bard his ass, verbally. Turns out it was somewhat necessary, if a bit harsh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evidently, I am alive, and this story is still kicking. I'll be trying to churn out slightly longer chapters, and this does read as a bit filler, but we hear from Thranduil next time and we definitely see the plot starting to move properly again.

Gaelaer appeared twice daily, waking him with a brusque but kind smile in mornings if he was busy, or with a leisurely conversation if he was not, and flashing by near evening-not that Bard could formulate a concept of the time by anything but the color of the water in the distance, for Thranduil’s coral palace had walls set with glowing green stones, casting a sickly, phosphorescent light over pitted pillars and walls.

He had no idea how long it had been, had nothing to mark the passage of the days, not when they all blended together in a watery blur, like an ink-covered page drenched in water. He did not speak when the Mer King swept by in swirls of arrogant silvers and cold eyes, he rarely ate the fish-bland, albeit nourishing-that appeared in plates on his bedside.

Bard could see the hollows in his cheekbones become hungry mouths of shadow slowly devouring his face, the tiredness evident in his eyes, for not even sleep provided a respite from his grief. He awoke screaming more nights than he could count, the sound garbled and distorted by the water around him; he’d stopped speaking almost entirely, Gaelaer being the only one capable of coaxing more than a nod, or bitter half-smile from his lips.

Truthfully, his physical wounds had long healed, gaping wounds knotting together into scabbed tissue which flaked and fell off eventually, leaving paler marks with ragged edges etched onto his skin. His injuries were all but gone, he had permission to move about-implicit, if not given directly-and yet he could barely find the strength to leave his bed.

Even getting up to relieve himself in the designated areas of the infirmary, where water was filtered and cycled and always fresh, or so he assumed, exhausted him.

He had no understanding of why he was being kept here, kept alive, when it was past time for the Mer King to order one of the guards he often saw swimming by, corded with muscle and their torsos seamlessly flowing into sharkskin, to slit his throat. Or even simply deposit him near the shore of an island, leaving him to die on land.

He voiced as much to Gaelaer on his next visit, the words dragging savagely against his disused throat.

“I do not claim to know the mind of the King,” was the healer’s brief response, along with an eloquent shrug.

“Has he forgotten about me entirely, then?” Bard managed to rasp out, tracking the other’s graceful movements with his eyes. Despite his own proficiency in swimming, his ease in the water, he could never hope to match the effortless fluidity of a Mer underwater.

“No, I think not. He has other matters to attend to, as do you.” The last three words were spoken with the closest thing to acerbity Bard had heard from him.

“Other things? Look at me, Gaelaer. I can barely get out of bed, every time I close my eyes I see-,” his voice broke as he choked on the words, the images flooding to mind unbidden as always, “that day, and I remember that it is my fault entirely. Everyone on land already thinks me dead, and it would be better if I were-a captain always goes down with his ship, and I was captain, and I do not deserve to live when I’m the one that-,”

“Enough!” A flick of his tail and Gaelaer was at his side, those slim, delicate fingers clutching his shoulders roughly. “How _dare_ you belittle the life you have, _Bard_? Do not deserve to live? After all I did, and am still doing, to care for you, to keep you alive, this is what you think? Your loss is staggering, and I understand that it is a terrible, terrible weight to carry, knowing that people have died because of your actions, your choices. But that does not make you any less alive! It does not give you the right to remain abed, paralyzed by grief and despair, and fear-you are here, wishing you were dead, and I have left you to mourn in silence for nearly a month, now. A month, after you healed. There is no reason you cannot go out into the city, or seek passage to the surface and return to your life; no reason for you to do _nothing_ and refuse to allow yourself to move on!”

“I-,” Bard started, shame burning low within his chest as he struggled to sit upright.

“No, you will let me finish,” Gaelaer hissed with a flash of his eyeteeth. “You are a broken man, yes, but there is no reason for you to remain this way, for you to sit there and let the fragments rot instead of trying to fit them together, to forge them into something new, perhaps. Something better,” he paused, closing his eyes and shifting backwards, a current brushing against Bard as he retreated. “There are many types of wounds, Bard, but I can only heal so many of them for you. The rest, they take time, and work, and it is slow, painful going, but it can be done.”

Bard remained silent, his hands fisting the soft material of his bedsheets as he moved, swinging his legs towards the coral flooring with determination.

“I’m sorry,” the healer murmured, turning to leave the alcove with a shake of his head. “That was…unkind of me to say, and I should not have gotten so caught up in the moment.”

“But it is true,” Bard shook his head, pushing off the bed with a weak stroke and propelling himself towards Gaelaer. His muscles burned with protest, but he could not deny that a part of him rejoiced in the clumsy movement. “It is true, and I am the one who should be apologizing. You’ve done so much for me, more than I expected. And…I think that staying in that bed, thinking of death, it wasn’t helping the nightmares. I felt weak-am still weak,” he corrected, noting the tremors in his arms where his fingers gripped the wall, “but if I stay in that bed, I know that I will never be whole again, will never see my children again.”

And that was a thought he could not bear; it was bad enough that they thought him dead, that he had abandoned them yet again, but to think that he’d almost forgotten them? Forgotten that _they_ were why he was doing this, that they were why he should heal, so that he could return home to them?

Something far deeper than shame twisted through him, burning at the back of his throat and at his eyelids as Gaelaer gave him a wide, brilliant smile, the light catching the dusting of scales on his shoulders.

“You’re welcome to help me care for the others. It wouldn’t be anything overly strenuous, and it should be enough to help take your mind off of things. If you aren’t too tired afterwards, I can give you a brief tour of this part of the city,” he offered, a hand reaching out to clasp Bard’s shoulders comfortingly.

He felt a whisper flare to life inside him, the smallest flicker of a spark where there had been nothing but empty darkness.

“Thank you,” he replied, a small smile, genuine for the first time in a month, tugging at his lips.

It turned out that the infirmary was not particularly crowded; its residents were a young Mer with a broken arm, the limb carefully splinted though it needed to be rewrapped, and a torrent of words that gushed from her mouth the moment she saw Bard’s two legs, rather than a tail (he found out that her name was Insial, that she had broken her arm on a rock as she made a particularly tight turn in a race-which she’d still ended up winning, she informed him with no small amount of pride); and a sullen looking guard who offered few words as Bard helped Gaelaer check his stitches and change his bandages.

“Got wounded in another orc raid towards the southern border,” the healer confided as Bard settled onto a smooth rock, his body exhausted.

“They’re growing bolder,” Bard murmured, letting his eyes drift shut briefly. The work had not been hard, but had still left him drained like a solid day’s work of fishing before he’d gotten tangled up in Oakenshield’s business.

“That they are, everyone’s worried about it, but the King will ensure that we are safe. He looks after his own,” Gaelaer replied, his voice ringing with surety and trust.

“Perhaps we could leave the tour of the city for another day?” Bard asked after he stifled a long yawn-sleep would not elude him tonight despite his best efforts. As for the nightmares that came with it, Bard could only hope that they would vanish, though he knew that a single day of light activity could not hope to erase them entirely.

“Tomorrow, then,” the other nodded decisively, giving Bard a dismissive wave of his hand as if to say ‘back to bed with you, then’. He chuckled at the familiarity of the gesture, muffling a groan as he pushed himself off of the rock and clumsily maneuvered himself into the alcove he’d come to think of his room.

He came to a stop before the bed, gazing at it with a soft sigh; getting back on it certainly was a sound option, and yet he found himself gathering the pillows and blankets, and settling himself onto the floor nearby. He couldn’t quite bring himself to lay on it, the comfort a reminder of the past month and the abyss he’d willingly let himself sink further into.

So he slept on the floor that night, endured his nightmares with more strength than he could remember having in a long time. And before he slipped into sleep, he whispered his children’s names into the darkened waters.

“Bain, Sigrid, Tilda. I’ll be home soon, I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's pretty evident that Bard's dealing with some serious PTSD and depression and just because Gaelaer reminded him that he's got reasons to live, does not mean that all of that is just going to miraculously vanish, because that's not how these things work. I hope I managed to convey that okay, and it's certainly going to being making reappearances for the rest of the story (for which I have assigned an arbitrary length). If you've got any tips on how I should be writing Bard's mental state, those are beyond welcome, and I'll also be doing some reading about said mental state in order to properly write about it.


	9. Chapter 9

“The orcs are growing bolder, father,” Legolas was waiting for him as soon as he left his chambers, his son easily keeping up with the powerful strokes of his tail.

“I am aware,” Thranduil responded simply. He neither halted nor offered any other words; the orc attacks were troubling, yes, but there were other matters at hand, such as the fact that trade with the Men near Erebor had all but ceased, and the Master there had looked apoplectic, according to the ambassador he’d sent to smooth things over.

As if Thranduil, eternal as the ocean itself, cared for the fleeting anger of an even more fleeting mortal life.

That debacle, unfortunately, tied directly into the apparent order for his capture by one Thorin II Oakenshield, who clearly had not forgotten nor forgiven his time in the palace dungeons. War would hardly be an inappropriate answer; though he’d been cautioned directly against it in no uncertain terms, his advisers had stated that it would be well within his rights to do so. 

But war would mean more death and less Mer to protect their borders from the selfsame orc menace near Dol Guldur; it would mean the bodies of his people floating sickly pale to the surface before their picked-clean bones drifted to rest at the ocean floor; it would mean countless souls making their journey to Valinor, to the Undying Lands, far before they heard the Song of the Undeep.

“Ada, please,” Legolas continued, desperation written clear across his face. Such compassion, Thranduil couldn’t help but to marvel, for there was a softness in his son, a naïveté the world had not yet managed to temper into cold, unforgiving steel. And he knew that he would do anything he could to preserve it, at least for now; there would come a time when Legolas would rule, when he would need to be hard and unyielding, but it was not now.

“Legolas, we protect our own, and we are holding the border, what more am I to do?” he halted, whirling to face his son. Two sides of a fair silver coin, they were, one born of the cold, unyielding waters of the depths, the other made of the coruscating surface, where light danced and there was warmth abound.

“Destroy the foul fortress; it is where these creatures are spawning, are growing,” the younger insisted. “We have-,”

“We do not have enough power to do this. And the fortress was cleansed, two months ago when our guest joined us. Our magic is no longer waxing, and I fear it may take the White Council to remove what has settled there,” Thranduil gave the explanation in cool tones, the water around him becoming chill to the flesh.

“Then I will go to them! Mithrandir is at Erebor, is he not? That isn’t so far from here, ada, I can go and-,”

“You will _not_ ,” Thranduil nearly snarled, the words cracking like a whip between them. A bolt of ice slashed into being in the water, a demarcation of two sides of an argument. “It is far too dangerous a journey, and it will not be done. We will hold our borders, look after our own. What happens outside them is of no concern to us, Legolas.”

“And when will it be our concern, ada? When the world has crumbled and the darkness in the Dol Guldur means that we have no allies, within our borders and without? When we are all _dead_ , sundered from the Undying Lands and its crystal waters? When we hear the Song of the Undeep and we go, leaving behind naught but rot and ruin behind us?” his son’s voice grew ever louder, ever more frantic; his power sent currents rippling forth like waves, swirling his hair around his brow like a storm cloud.

“ _Enough_ , Legolas!” The eddies that had begun to swirl violently halted immediately in their tracks, frosted over as Thranduil’s jagged-cold anger breathed onto them. His son looked at him, disappointment and outrage simmering in his eyes-a younger version of himself, Thranduil often thought of Legolas, though it was never true; Legolas had naught of him but appearance, for he belonged to his grandfather and mother in temperament.  Selfless, reckless, guileless. The other side to his masks, his cold mien.

“We are through speaking of this, do you understand me?” he shattered the silence that had grown between them, and with it the ice; its shards drifted downwards in lazy curls, melting all the way.

“Yes, my lord.”

Legolas turned, tail flashing in the bluish light as he left as quickly as was respectful.

“A crown is a heavy burden, my son,” he murmured to himself, fingers drifting to trace the opalescent gems, the silver whorls of the one that weighted his brow. Even as a slow ball of dread coalesced in the pit of his stomach and sent tremors down his spine.

“Tauriel,” he sighed, gesturing for the omnipresent Captain of the Guard. He would have to send her after him; Legolas was almost unbecomingly fond of her, fond enough that she could temper the blade of his anger at this.

“My lord?” A flicker of a current as she swam to him, her voice carefully even.

“Go after the Prince, ensure he remains within the borders of this Kingdom while he works off his fit of passion. And ensure he remains within the Palace unless I order otherwise.”

“As you wish,” Thranduil could hear the reluctance of her acquiescence, feel it as if it were a tangible thing. He did not turn to face her; Legolas’ fiery fury, his leaden disappointment-despite being found in the eyes of his son, they were somehow easier to bear than the quiet, restrained disagreement he knew lurked in Tauriel. In the tension of her shoulders as she bowed, in the set of her mouth, in the narrowing of her eyes.

Her obeisance, delivered seamlessly alongside these small acts of rebellion, rankled.

“I intend to visit our human guest,” Thranduil informed her before she left. “He has the most recent news of Oakenshield and Erebor, and I intend to hear it out before he leaves my halls. Come to the throne room when you have retrieved my son, I suspect his words will leave us much to discuss.”

“As you wish,” the Captain repeated, inclining her head in a curt bow before turned, swimming in the opposite direction as Thranduil.

A few minutes had him in the infirmary, awaiting his head healer-who, it appeared, had ventured into the upper rooms, much to Thranduil’s irritation.

“Gaelaer,” he called out, gazing into an alcove to see the healer’s back bent as he leaned over a sickbed holding a bandaged Mer, laying prone and almost unnaturally still.

“Bard, you can finish changing those bandages, yes?” Gaelaer asked the human, who had been carefully dabbing the open wound with ointment, to Thranduil’s surprise. A human, caring for a Mer, after being cared for by Mer-an ironic twist of events, considering the tales that had long lurked in the cities of Men.

“Actually, I came to speak to our guest,” Thranduil corrected him, tilting his fingers in an upward gesture for Bard to rise-which, gratifyingly, he does.

“Very well, then,” the healer nodded, giving Thranduil a warning look before returning to the bedside. “Bard, I’ll wait for you to eat.”

The bowman smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners and lips curving upwards; there are new lines on his face, now, canyons carved by age and loss, and the smile only barely glimmers in his dark eyes, leaving the grief there still untouched, but it transforms his face entirely. His grim visage was now something new, something with a flicker of hope, and joy.

Incredible, Thranduil caught himself thinking, but it is only a fleeting thought, for the smile vanishes as soon as the man turns to regard the Mer King.

“So, Your Majesty, what is it you wished to speak with me about?” his voice was still rough, though not from the nightmares that plagued him, or for the weakness brought on by a nearly life-threatening injury.

“Thorin Oakenshield, and the mithril net he gave you-for my capture,” Thranduil said, willing a current to guide Bard to their destination, a courtyard right next to the infirmary, verdant with seaweeds and iridescent with small fish.

“My thanks for the assistance,” the Man replied as he was settled onto a bench carved from coral. Thranduil merely gave him a cool nod in response. “And as for Oakenshield…well. He did, in fact, reclaim Erebor, as you well know. And the wyrm Smaug is dead, his bones interred in the lagoon near the Lonely Mountain, where Esgaroth lies. Dale has not yet been rebuilt, though there was some talk of it when I left. People are, well, they mistrust Oakenshield and his dwarrows. Help was promised to us, compensation for the dragonfire that destroyed most of Esgaroth, in the form of a portion of Erebor’s gold.”

“And it has not come, of course,” Thranduil cut in smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you can rely on a single thing in this world, it will be the greed and gold lust of the dwarrows. Oakenshield is going down precisely the same path as his grandfather, mad king Thrór. The reoccupation of Dale will have to wait until there is a _sane_ King Under the Mountain, for you will receive no help from that quarter.”

“A fact of which I am well aware, and I fear that the Master-a greedy, grasping man-intends to march on Erebor should he not receive his gold before the year is done. Whereupon he will promptly vanish with it, never to be seen again, and leave us in precisely the same position as before, if not worse,” Bard’s voice was bitter, as if he’d had higher hopes of this Master. Thranduil had met the man, and his father before him, and he knew the truth of their hunger for wealth. There would be no selflessness, no sacrifice to be found from Men of that line, even as their own people starved.

“Oakenshield offered a trade, when he did meet with us-through a reconstructed wall barring entrance to the mountain, no less,” here, Bard stopped, his mouth turned downwards into a scowl.

“Me, for the gold,” Thranduil completed. “His arrogance knows no bounds, truly. To think that a mere human could capture the Mer King, to even put a price on the head of a fellow ruler….such an act is tantamount to a declaration of war.”

“He is mad,” Bard murmured, shaking his head. “My people are starving, winter is approaching, and we are at the whim of a mad King Under the Mountain. There is not even the hope of trade, for most of our ships were destroyed…how are we to survive this winter?”

“Your Master may have the right idea. A mad King cannot be reasoned with. Perhaps war is the only way,” he said, almost to himself. A war with Oakenshield, it could prove disastrous, but should they march now, they could outpace any potential allies. Certainly, they could win against a company of thirteen dwarves and one Halfling. And they could leave behind enough Mer to defend against the foulness of Dol Guldur-and the wizard was in Erebor, too, was he not? Thranduil had no intention of leaving his kingdom; he would send a large, armed envoy to Erebor to supplement the Men of Laketown when they inevitably marched, and he would send them with other forms of aid as well. 

“You would wage war against Oakenshield?” Bard asked, incredulous. “You barely leave the borders of the Merwater; outside Eryn Lasgalen, you’re naught but a myth, and you would go to war?”

“This is no war, Bowman,” Thranduil let out a low chuckle, the sound chilling the water around him. “Oakenshield put what is essentially a bounty on the head of a fellow monarch-no, this is not war, though it is within my rights to do so, and none would argue. A threat against me is a threat against my entire kingdom. But a war is something I cannot afford; I cannot send forth an army of Mer to fight a battle on a mountain and leave my own borders defenseless. I can, however, send with you an envoy to ensure your safe return, one of Silvan Mer-they can become cleft, at will, if they wish, though not many do," he added in explanation, "for our kind cannot bear to be away from the sea for long. But this will not take long. 

“This, Bard, is an example. One which you will be joining in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon timeline-wise, I've extended the time between Smaug's death and the Battle of the Five Armies to at least 3 months; that's when this fic takes place. Smaug has been killed (by Bard), and Thorin is currently King Under the Mountain. The Arkenstone betrayal has not yet happened, since they're still looking for it, and I've also slowed down Thorin's descent into gold-madness. There's also more of a focus on rebuilding essential parts of Erebor, as those were considerably more damaged here than in movie/book canon. 
> 
> The Undeep is absolutely something I made up, but I think it quite suits; it's based on a place called Buccoo Reef in that it's a spot in the middle of the ocean where the water is shallow. Obviously I added some more magical things here, but it's a good equivalent for Valinor/the Undying Lands, and it's held most sacred by the Mer. (I borrowed the idea from my own fantasy world, where the elves are amphibious, and the Undeep is their most sacred spot).


End file.
